


Wherever I Lay My Hat (that's my home)

by orphan_account



Category: NASCAR RPF
Genre: Boys have odd ways of showing affection, Crack Pairing, Established Relationship, M/M, Prank War, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rare Pair, Tryyy iiit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junior and Kyle share a tender moment.</p><p>Just kidding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever I Lay My Hat (that's my home)

"Get your hands out of my car, you dumb hillbilly!"

Junior growled and tried to lean further into the #18 car, cursing as Kyle's hands blocked him by pushing harder against his face. The car's nets were down and Junior's arms were shoulder-deep through the window, flailing blindly inside and hitting the seat, the dash, and - mostly - the driver.

"Just gimme back my ball cap ya' little asshole!" Junior shouted, his words distorted by the hands smashing his cheeks.

"I don't have your fucking ball cap Junior! Jesus!" Kyle yelled. He twisted in his seat and shoved at Junior's shoulders. Junior stumbled back, angry bewilderment crossing his expression before he recovered and returned the push.

The fight quickly dissolved into a childish back-and-forth shoving match, both men stubborn and pissed off as hell. The other drivers and pit crew workers watched in amusement - this was a pretty common sight. With no cameras or fans currently watching, no one bothered to try and separate the two men; it was a hell of a lot more fun to just let them go at it.

"Busch, just - hey!" Junior yelped as Kyle started his engine. He quickly pulled back his arms and stumbled backwards, falling on his ass as Kyle slammed the gas pedal and peeled away.

"Busch! What the fuck!? You get back here you sonuva- "

Kyle stuck his arm out of the #18's window. Dangling precariously from his raised middle finger was Junior's ragged ball cap.

“Goddammit Kyle!”

-

Kyle couldn't stop laughing. He made his way to his motorcoach with his arms clutching his stomach - he was laughing so hard that it was starting to hurt. God, the look on that dumbfuck's face! Priceless. Fucking priceless.

Still chuckling, Kyle entered his motorcoach.

What he saw there immediately sobered him up.

"What the hell is all this shit doing in my coach?!"

The interior of his coach was a sea of blue and green; everywhere he looked, he saw National Guard, Mountain Dew, or - worst of all - pictures of the man they sponsered. His couches had been replaced with #88 recliners and bar stools - his clocks now had the #88 car emblazoned on them. #88 throw pillows, #88 blankets, #88 posters - everywhere.

Junior, who was just finishing up by nailing a large pennant flag bearing his face to the center of the wall, turned to the younger man, hammer in hand and shit-eating grin forming around several nails held between his teeth. He finished hanging the flag and slid the rest of the nails into his pocket.

"Well, Kyle," he started, "I figured ya' liked my hat so damn much, I'd give ya' a few other things to enjoy!"

Kyle could feel his face beginning to heat, the angry flush spreading down his neck. He opened his mouth, so shocked and enraged he couldn't even think of anything to say - so instead he settled for grabbing the closest poster and tearing it to shreds.

"Hey, I worked hard to hang all those," Junior protested, mock-hurt.

"Get out! Get the fuck out of my coach right now you son of a bitch!" Kyle screamed, charging towards the other man.

Junior burst into uproarious laughter, dodging Kyle's fists to run across the room and out the door.

Kyle's screams followed him all the way to his own coach.

-

"Uh, Junior? What're you doin'?"

Junior frowned, turning to face his crew chief Steve.

"Whaddya mean?" he asked.

"You're...is somethin' wrong with your firesuit?"

Junior glanced down, only just realizing that one hand had been absentmindedly scratching at his chest while the other scritched furiously under his collar. Now that Steve had mentioned it - the damn thing was really starting to itch. He'd just put it on! What the hell? God, it was getting worse! Fucking unbearable!

The driver tugged on his zipper, peering inside his suit. All over the inside material was what looked like a fine, silvery powder. An apparently really itchy powder.

Itching powder?

"BUSCH!"

-

All of Kyle's dresser drawers were filled with official Dale Earnhardt Jr. merchandise. He didn't want to walk around in his firesuit but he didn't want to wear that shit! Grumbling, he went over to investigate his closet, hoping that Junior had skipped over it. He opened the door -

\- and toppled an overhead bucket of Mountain Dew, completely drenching himself.

"EARNHARDT!"

-

The day continued in much the same fashion, until finally the #88 and #18 teams got frustrated with the two and insisted that they get in their cars and actually do their "goddamn jobs" and practice for the race the next day. Once the two started driving they were all business, and afterwards both men retired to their respective coaches. Everyone thought the pranks were finally over - for the day, at least - but no one saw Junior sneak across the motorcoach lot after the sun went down, slipping quietly into Kyle's RV like a thief in the dark. If anyone had seen him, they probably would have assumed that he was carrying out another practical joke - but they would have been wrong.

The pranks really were over for the day.

This was something entirely different.

"Now will you tell me where my couches are?"

Junior hummed. "A little more to the right and I'll bring 'em back for ya' tomorrow," he answered.

Kyle huffed and moved his hands across the plane of Junior's back to scratch at his right shoulder blade. Junior was resting on his stomach on Kyle's bed with his boyfriend straddling his hips, thoroughly content as the young Busch scratched his back to make up for the itching powder earlier.

"You know the shower we took earlier should have taken care of this," Kyle bitched.

"Wasn't really focusing on washing off there, Busch," Junior replied. Kyle could hear the horny smirk in his voice. "Besides, that shit was terrible. I'm still so fuckin' itchy. Who the hell carries itching powder around with 'em?"

"I don't," Kyle replied, moving his hands to Junior's left shoulder and earning a moan of approval. "I made it out of maple seeds. Used to use it on Kurt all the time."

"Maple seeds?"

"Yeah, you know - helicopter seeds. The ones with wings."

Junior grunted and turned onto his back. He clasped his hands on Kyle's hips and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Whirligigs?"

"Sure, those. Whatever," Kyle replied, resting his hands on Junior's shoulders. He leant down to press his lips to Junior's. Junior reciprocated, but refused to be distracted from the conversation.

"Do ya'" kiss "have any idea" kiss "how hard it is" kiss "to keep" kiss "your hands" kiss "on the wheel" kiss "when you're that" kiss "goddamn" kiss "itchy?" deep kiss, moans.

By the time Kyle pulled back, he was breathing heavily. "I think you more than got your revenge," he panted.

"Yeah I did," Junior leered, groping at Kyle's ass.

"No, dumbass," Kyle said, cheeks coloring. "I mean the Mountain Dew. That's never going to come out of my carpet! And where the hell is all my stuff?!"

"That's for me and the boys that helped me move it all to know, and you to never find out."

"Will you at least give me my clothes back?" Kyle compromised, exasperated. Junior casted a fond look at the #88's emblazoned across Kyle's shirt and shorts.

"No," he answered.

Kyle groaned dramatically, rolling off Junior and onto his back beside him. Junior propped his elbow up and stared down at him.

"I wanna fuck you on these sheets," he stated bluntly, patting the official #88 Dale Earnhardt Jr. bedding beneath them.

"We have a race tomorrow and I'm already sore," Kyle replied. "And you're not fucking me again until I get my stuff back."

"That's what ya' said when I first came in," Junior said. "And then we fucked."

Kyle rolled onto his side, showing Junior his back. Which also had a #88 on it. "Get the hell out of my coach, Junior," he commanded.

Junior shrugged and slipped out of bed. As he was walking to the door, he spotted the ratty ball cap that Kyle had stolen from him that morning on the nightstand. He picked it up and put it on, tugging it low over his eyes. "See ya' at the track, Busch."

"The only thing you'll be seeing is the back of my car, Earnhardt," he heard Kyle mumble as he was walking out the door. He rolled his eyes but left without a word, hitting the lights on his way out.

-

Half an hour later, Junior slipped silently back into the coach. He peeked into his boyfriend's bedroom to find the young man sleeping soundly. With quiet steps he made his way to Kyle's bedside, smiling softly as he discovered the other driver splayed out like a starfish across #88 sheets and drooling on a #88 pillow.

He bent over to press a light kiss to Kyle's temple, feeling unabashedly fond. He set the ball cap he had reclaimed earlier on the bed just beside one of Kyle's hands.

"Goodnight tonight an' good luck tomorrow, Shrub," he whispered into his ear before leaving once again.

On his way back to his own coach, he chuckled as he pictured Kyle's reaction to the crushed whirligigs he would find in Junior's hat tomorrow morning - hopefully after he had put it on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (cross-posted at fanficnation)


End file.
